


Disgraced

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Series: Interlaced [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But He's Trying Now, CAM Fucking Sucks guys, Charles Augustus Magnussen Being Creepy, Conditioning, Confused Sherlock, Jim Has Issues, John Tries, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Memory Alteration, Murder, Nightmares, PTSD Sherlock, Past Brainwashing, Past Kidnapping, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Possessive Jim, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective Jim, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: Sherlock is back at 221B Baker Street. Everyone keeps telling him that he's safe now, that he won't be hurt anymore. But being without Jim hurts just as much as the thought of being without John.Healing is hard enough, and when you throw in the king of blackmail, things really can't get any worse.





	Disgraced

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap here's Number 3!!! It only took me ten months since I actually STARTED it to finish it. Enjoy and thanks for waiting and being supportive!!
> 
> So, I think this is the end. I have a few vague ideas of where this could go, but I dunno. Nothing concrete, or any real plot, just a couple vague ideas. I'm happy with this being a trilogy. What do you think?
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

When Sherlock Holmes entered 221B Baker Street for the first time in over two months, it felt like coming home.

It was all so familiar; there was his chair, and his skull on the mantelpiece. There was the spray-paint smiley face on the wall with bullet holes shot into the eyes and nose. There was the microscope he'd had for years, still sitting on the kitchen table along with much of his other science equipment, just where he'd left them. There was his periodic table on his bedroom wall. There was the bookshelf, filed to his specifications.

When Sherlock Holmes entered 221B Baker Street for the first time in over two months, it felt like entering a stranger's home.

There wasn't the plush couch from his living room, where he and Jim would sit when they were both reading, their feet curled together. There wasn't the wall of windows that Sherlock found the best place to take notes. There wasn't the fully-stocked lab, or the study, or the library. There wasn't the small balcony off of their room, the best place to play music at night because of the perfect view of the sunset. There wasn't Jim.

Some of Mycroft's men had packed up his belongings; his clothes from their room, his experiment notes from his lab, and his violin from the living room. Sherlock didn't know what Mycroft had had them do with all of Jim's things, or what they'd done with the things that were actually _his,_ just given to him by Jim. He didn't ask, either; it would just cause unwantedand unneededproblems.

John Watson was there, offering to help Sherlock put his things away _('back where they're supposed to be'_ Sherlock could practically read word-for-word on the doctor's face), but Sherlock declined. It was his first time back in his 221B Baker Street room, and he wanted to have a moment to do it himself.

Before they had let him return to Baker Street, Mycroft brought him to a doctor in the hospital that was incredibly good at being discreet. The man had looked him overevery inch of him, to Sherlock's irritationwith the perfect form of professionalism. It had been obvious that both Mycroft and John had wanted to stay with him, but Mycroft had gotten John to back down with a look and then left himself.

At the end of the examination, the doctor had gone succinctly down the list of Sherlock's injuries, not pausing uncomfortably or looking sympathetic at any of them. That made the whole experience slightly easier.

Apparently, Sherlock had scarring in his rectum, healing cuts on his feet, the lasting marks of many injections (a testament to a time he didn't quite remember yet) on his neck and arms and thighs, and the _JW,_ of course. There were also a few rope-like scars on his back and thin but long and jagged ones on his chest, blinking palely. The doctor had asked him how they'd come to be, and Sherlock had monotonously answered that whenever Jim was angry he enjoyed very rough sex. The doctor hadn't asked for further details.

Though Mycroft had had no emotional expression when Sherlock had finished redressing and gone out to meet him, Sherlock was positive that the doctor had described his injuries to his brother. The man worked _for_ Mycroft, after all; normal doctor-patient confidentiality laws didn't apply to the Holmes brothers.

As much as being back at 221B felt right and wrong, Sherlock was glad to be there. It had been his life for so long, his _home_ for so long, and it still felt like one to him. It just wasn't the _only_ one anymore.

The first few days of being back made Sherlock very uncomfortable. John Watson lived there, hadapparentlydone so since the cabbie case when Sherlock had first heard Jim's name from a dying man's lips. 221B was John Watson's home as much as it was Sherlock's.

But it was...strange. John Watson was used to a certain way between them, a certain level of fond familiarity. But Sherlock didn't know him. He had some details running around in his head, of course; but mainly it was just the ones the cocaine had knocked loose in his mind. It certainly wasn't enough to feel happy living in such close quarters with the man.

Sherlock didn't know if anyone could understand the feeling of being in love with someone and yet barely knowing a single thing about them.

Because he did; he _knew_ that he did. Whenever he saw John or thought of him, he _felt_ it. But it wasn't possible to say that he wanted to be with John when he didn't even know who the man _was._

Sherlock knew that he'd told the army doctor that he'd like to try to know him. A wish to know the person he loved felt very important in such a high-stress situation as the one in which he'd said that. But after, when he was back at 221B and dealing with adjusting to so much...well, a strange feeling in his heart wasn't enough for him to suddenly trust someone. He was not one to go in blind.

But that also left him to a decision: did he want to trust John Watson? In the memories he hadreal or not, he had them all the samehe'd trusted Mycroft and been betrayed; he'd trusted Victor and been hurt; he'd trusted Lestrade and Molly and been used. And then of courseunforgettablyhe'd trusted Jim and discovered...well. Why should he choose to open himself up to that again when he really didn't have to?

And then there was Jim himself to consider.

Sherlock knew what Jim had done to him. When he'd asked Mycroft for the actual details, his brother had only hesitated for a moment before telling him. Sherlock knew that Jim had used drugs to shove his way into Sherlock's mind, to make his thoughts about everyone around him twist until they were completely different. He'd made him feel so completely unloved by everyone elseso _hated_ by everyone elseand made him _want_ to delete John Watson from his memories. He'd forced Sherlock to love him and conditioned different responses in him to make him more pliant. He'd raped Sherlock. Many times.

But most of all, out of all of those thingsor maybe wrapping all of those things into onehe'd taken Sherlock's choices away from him. And that was the one thing Sherlock could not forgive.

Some might find that strange, Sherlock knew. Jim had drugged him until he could barely move and then taken pleasure from Sherlock's limp body. He'd whipped fire across Sherlock's back and carved patterns across his chest. He'd done horrible thing after horrible thing to Sherlock's body and mind, all in the name of supposed _"love"_. All of those things, when he could recall them, had him waking up with stifled screams in the middle of the night.

But for Sherlock, that was nothing _nothing_ compared to having his choices taken away from him. Jim had warped and twisted his mind and forced him to believe things that weren't true _(not true, not true,_ he was still convincing himself). He'd rewired Sherlock's brain so that Sherlock had no say in his life. He'd programmed triggers in his head that made him docile, made him want things he never would've wanted before, made him nothing more than a dog brought to heal.

And it _killed him._ It absolutely _killed him_ that someone else had so thoroughly taken over his mind. What killed him even more was that he still loved Jim. He could forgive Jim for everything he'd done to his body  _(that's the conditioning, just the conditioning, move past it)_ but he  _hated_ him for what he'd done to his mind. And yethe loved him.

Fucking Jim Bloody Moriarty.

John was trying, that much was obvious. He was trying to give Sherlock space, to give him time to adjust and heal and move forward. But he was in love with Sherlock and he remembered their life together, and he'd seen everything that had happened to the consulting detective; there was pain every time he looked at Sherlock, pain and guilt and regret. And anytime Sherlock smiled at something he'd said, Watson's eyes would light up with hope, the pain forgotten for a moment, and Sherlock would pull away again, which caused John more pain. It was an endless cycle.

Mycroft dropped by 221B quite often, always under the pretense of something or another, but really just there to check in on his baby brother. Strangely, this comforted Sherlock more than he thought it would. He acted just as annoyed as he always would, and there was a lot of rage and betrayal when he saw his brother _(fake feelings, just fake)_ , but having his brother's support for the first time in so long felt safe.

Sherlock was afraid to ask about Jim. He knew that Mycroft had him sequestered away somewhere, and Mycroft knew that he knew, but neither of them acknowledged it. Sherlock didn't even know what he would saywhat he would askif he did bring it up, so he simply didn't.

* * *

Though Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew that he would talk circles around any psychologist put in front of him, his brother was still making him attend.

Maybe it was for Mycroft's own dark amusement, or maybe it came from a place of genuine concern _(it does, you know it does. Mycroft..._ loves _you, he wants to help you. Talking helps people overcome trauma. He just wants to help, he cares)_ , but no matter the source, Sherlock was not happy about having to attend therapy twice a week.

In the beginning he had simply ignored the sessions Mycroft set up for him, but then his overbearing big brother told John about them and John did everything short of physically removing Sherlock from the flat (the army doctor was very careful to never touch the detective; the lastand onlytime he had had been the morning after a particularly bad nightmare. The result had not been horrible, but definitely unpleasant) to attend.

The woman Sherlock was sitting across from was, at least, not completely stupid. Dr. Maria Marshall was Oxford and Cambridge educated. She graduated summa cum laude from both universities and had various letters of recommendation from many well-respected academics. Her eyes were sharp and analytical but not abrasive or harsh, and she had apparently mastered the expression of open blankness.

At least she didn't look at him with sympathy or hope. He would have turned around and walked right out had he seen that. But he supposed that Mycroft _had_ chosen her, after all; his brother knew him enough to not pick someone like that.

Sherlock, still under the impression that therapy was a waste of his time, didn't say anything. He stared at the books on her bookshelf, counting them and sorting them in different ways in his head. By genre, then alphabetically by author, then alphabetically by title, then in numerical order by date of publication, and then in order of most-read to least-read (by creases in the spines).

In contrast to what he had expected, the therapist didn't say anything, either. She sat silently and alternated between watching Sherlock and looking out the window. Neither action was absentmindedeven just staring outside was deliberate, though not pointed; she only looked away from Sherlock when she perceived (correctly, to his annoyance) that he was becoming uncomfortable or irritated with the attention, and then back when he had relaxed a bit.

The first three sessions passed in exactly the same fashion. He was silent, examining different parts of her room or thinking about completely random topics, and she was silent, doing what she had the first time. At the beginning of the third session she added reading a book to her rotation.

"Aren't you supposed to _do_ something?" Sherlock asked halfway through their fourth session, suddenly feeling irritated.

Dr. Marshall looked up from her book _Gulliver's Travels_ by Jonathan Swiftand rose an eyebrow. She put her book to the side. "Something I've come to realize is that therapy doesn't work if it's forced upon someone. I could talk at you all I like, but I think that would simply motivate you to keep silent more than anything else, so why bother? You can choose to let me help you move past your trauma or you can sit there in silence for the hour you have to be here each session and not make any progress whatsoever. Either way, I still get paid. It's up to you to decide what you want to do, because I sure as hell can't make the decision for you."

Sherlock could see why his brother had picked this woman.

"How does this even work?" Sherlock asked. "Do I spill out my deep dark secrets and you ask me how that makes me feel?" Disdain and mocking dripped from his every word.

Pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the doctor looked a little amused. "Well, you can do that, if you so wish. But how about we start by me asking you how often you have nightmares?"

The detective's mouth pushed into a thin line. He ignored the initial thought of asking her how she knew he had them; not only was it common in people dealing with trauma, but Sherlock was also well aware of the tired circles under his eyes. "Whenever I sleep."

"How often do you sleep?"

Sherlock's lips twisted into a darkly amused smile. "Whenever my body simply cannot continue without it."

"Do you force yourself to stay awake as long as possible to avoid the nightmares?" she asked, and Sherlock nodded. "Do you use anything to help?"

The tall man snorted. "If that question is in reference to my history of drug abuse, no, I haven't been using. If it is simply in general...a lot of coffee, I suppose. I keep moving, keep my brain active."

"Do you want to be using again?"

For a moment Sherlock considered lying, but it seemed pointless. "Yes."

The doctor just nodded, not looking surprised or judgmental. "What do you dream about? Specifically, not just the two months in general."

Sherlock looked at her like she was crazy. "Wouldn't the natural answer to the question be the times I was forced into sex?"

Dr. Marshall tilted her head. "Yes, I suppose that would be the _natural_ -" she used air-quotes for that word, "-answer, but not, I think, the one that fits you best. So what is?"

Sherlock remained silent.

She sighed. "I know your brother is a very powerful man, and he's the one who partnered you with me. But I would like to make it _abundantly clear_ that whatever you say here does not leave this room. There are three things that I am bound by legality to report: if you have plans to hurt yourself, if you have plans to hurt someone else, or if someone is currently hurting you. Other than that, we have legal confidentiality. I'm not allowed to reveal any information without your consent."

Once more, Sherlock snorted. He thought back to the doctor's examination. "Normal confidentiality laws didn't apply to the Holmes brothers."

The doctor frowned at him, clearly trying to work through what he meant. Suddenly, she seemed to understand. "Mycroft took you to Dr. Howlett for your exam, didn't he?" Sherlock nodded again. "You probably came to the conclusion that Howlett told your brother his findingscorrectly, I'm afraid. But Howlett has had a connection to Mycroft for years; he's discreet, and your brother has used that quality for years in sensitive cases. But before he approached me about taking you on as a patient, I had never talked to nor met Mycroft Holmes. He chose me because I am the best in my field and can really help you, not because I agreed to report everything you say back to him. You have no reason to care about my word, but you have it." After a brief pause, "So I'd like to ask again; what are your nightmares about?"

Sherlock had no reason to speak to her. He had no idea why he was even _considering_ it. He'd been back about four weeks and had never once broached the topic of discussion with Mycroft or John, even though they would be the logical choices to speak to about such personal matters. They were the ones he was closest to; why would he talk to a complete stranger about his time away when he wouldn't even speak to his brother or the man he loved?

And then it hit him: that was the whole point. Maria Marshall was an outside point of view. She hadn't known him before. She had no expectations of him, no hopes for him to act a certain way. She was meeting him as he was and was there to get him passed something that was really affecting him. Johnand Mycroft, to a lesser extentwanted things to be back to normal so badly, and he wouldn't understand what was going on in Sherlock's head. Maybe the doctor wouldn't either, but she wouldn't judge him for it, or be disgusted.

"What do you know about my...situation?" Sherlock asked, wanting to know if he'd have to explain anything beforehand. He really didn't want to do that.

Dr. Marshall didn't hesitate, her voice sure and calm. "I know that you were kidnapped by a criminal who was obsessed with you. I know that he used drugs to alter your memories and condition you. I know you returned about a month ago after your brother found you. Anything else I have on the subject is just inferences I've made from that knowledge, but that's all the information that was shared with me."

_Breathe in for four, hold four, breathe out for four, hold four..._

_I can do this. I can do this._

"One of them starts with us eating lunch. It's like any other afternoon. I look up because he's smiling at me and he reaches over to brush his fingers across my wrist in a familiar gesture. But when our skin touches it burns, it sears. Black veins erupt from the contact and it hurts more than anything I've ever felt. He looks confused, like he doesn't understand, and even as I back away he keeps coming closer, trying to understand what's wrong. Every time he touches me it burns. Then I wake up."

The doctor remains silent, giving him a moment to think and speak on his own time.

"In another, I'm in the room I don't completely remember. I'm weak and don't really have control over my body. And he's on top of me. He's whispering about how much I'll love it, how much  _he_ loves _me,_  and he's moving inside me. Then his face morfs into John's, so now it's John on top of me, raping me. Then I feel a hand in my hair, not John's, but _his._ His hand runs through my hair soothingly and he murmurs calming words in my ear, words of support and love.

"There's one where John kills him. There's one where he kills John. There's one where Mycroft watches me being tortured and says that it's necessary. There's one where I kill Mycroft, one where I kill John, one where I kill him.

"But the worst one by far..." Sherlock drew in a slow breath. "It's morning and we're lying in bed. He's sprawled out on his stomach as always, one arm flung across my chest. I reach over and smooth my hand through his hair and smile when his face scrunches up in sleep. He wakes up and grumbles about the early hour and then kisses me. We get up, shower, get dressed, and go down for breakfast. The day is normal. We sit together and read. We plan. I play violin, he plays piano. I work on an experiment, he works on whatever catches his fancy. We fuck. We laugh, we love. We go to sleep.

"And then I wake up. For a few moments I'm still there, and I reach across the bed for him with a smile, mentally planning out what I want to get done that day, going through if we have any jobs lined up. But his side of the bed is cold and empty and the sheets feel wrong and when I open my eyes I'm in my room at Baker Street."

"Why is that the worst one?" Dr. Marshall asked quietly, her voice soft. Sherlock wanted to bristle at her gentle tone as he normally would have, but all he could feel was exhausted.

"Because it devastates me, when I awake. The dream makes me so content, and I wake up still feeling that. But when it hits me that I have left that place, that I have left _him,_ I feel despondent, destroyed. And then when it hits me that I am feeling devastated over the loss of my life with him, the torture that it was, I feel even worse. The entire day following a dream like that always leaves me feeling hopeless and full of longing and flinching from the kindness given to me by John and Mycroft."

Sherlock wasn't looking at the doctor _couldn't,_ not after allowing himself to be so rawbut he could feel her looking at him. "Do those dreams make you feel guilty?"

He snorted. "Obviously."

"Why?"

This drew Sherlock's gaze back to Dr. Marshall. She was looking at him with what seemed like genuine curiosity. Sherlock let out an incredulous laugh. "Why? _Why?_ Because I'm yearning for a man who tortured and raped me, who warped my mind to suit his needs. Because I still _love_ him, still _want_ him. What is there to _not_ feel guilty about?"

The doctor tilted her head. "Why is any of that _your_ fault?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. "Let me finish. You said it yourself; this man warped your mind. He changed your thoughts, altered your memories, all for the purpose of making you  _love_ him, making you _want_ him. And it was successful, because he designed it perfectly. And leaving that environment doesn't change what happened, or what he instilled in you. You can't expect there to be a magic switch that suddenly solves all your problems, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained silent. Dr. Marshall followed suit for a few moments before asking, "What was his name?"

His initial response was to think that a stupid question, until he realized that he had yet to address Jim by name during their entire discussion. While he was thinking about it, it occurred to him that he hadn't _actually_ said Jim's name out loud since the last time he'd seen him. Not to John or Mycroft or any other person he had interacted with since returning.

And, he found, it was very difficult to do so now.

"Jim," Sherlock croaked, his throat tight. "His name was...his name is Jim."

"Can I ask you about him, Sherlock?"

The detective snorted. "I believe you already _have,_ Dr. Marshall."

"I mean specifically about _him,_ not the situation itself," the doctor explained. After a hesitant moment, Sherlock inclined his head in permission. "Before what happened, how well did you know him?"

Sherlock frowned, unsure how to answer the question. Before the kidnapping, Sherlock had spent maybe a total of eight minutes in Jim's company, at the pool, and had noticed quite a bit, but it depended on how you defined _'knowing well',_ he supposed. Sherlock _'knew'_ people as soon as he saw them. And Jim was...Jim had always been so worth knowing.

The memory of the pool was a little unclear because of John's in-and-out existence in his memories, but he remembered the conversation he'd had with Jim, remembered how alive he had felt, how exhilarated. He remembered watching the criminal, analyzing his every step, his every move, hungrily taking in every detail he could like a sponge. He remembered seeing Jim doing the exact same thing.

Yes, Sherlock thought, he knew Jim well. He remembered...oh god, how he remembered. He remembered looking at Jim and seeing his mirror image, two sides of the same coin, as clichéd as that sounded. He remembered how he hadn't been able to help thinking that if he hadn't stumbled upon Lestrade's crime scene that first time and deduced the killer and then fallen in love with the rush that taking apart that crime came with, he could've just as easily become Jim. If Jim had found him first, found him and shown him how to _plan_ murders instead of solve them, he would have loved that just as quickly, too.

He remembered seeing Jim right in front of him at the pool and thinking that maybe he still could.

And it wasn't just that meeting, when he learned things about Jim. It was the whole Game leading up to it, every action and meaning behind it. Flirtation, courting, a test, an invitation. And then that meeting...Oh, how he had _craved._

 _We were always meant to be, Sherlock,_ Jim had said one afternoon in bed, his ear pressed to Sherlock's bare chest, right over his heart. _Like two planets always in orbit of each other. One raging hot as fire-_ Jim had tapped his own chest, indicating which of them he meant, _-and the other burning cold as ice. Our story was written in the stars; how could it not be?_

Sherlock couldn't quite remember why he hadn't just left with Jim, but that in and of itself was proof enough of his reasoningJohn.

He was unsure of how to put his thoughts into words in a way that she would understand, in a way that wouldn't make him admit that he'd been so utterly fascinated by a criminal mastermind and had actually wanted to  _go_ with said psychopath, so, in the end, Sherlock settled on a simple answer. "Very."

Dr. Marshall waited, but when it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to expand on that, she sighed and let it go. Before she could say anything else, Sherlock glanced at the clock, said "Time's up", and swept quickly from the room. He didn't wait for her to say goodbye.

* * *

The man watched the video in front of him with avid attention, his focus solely on what was happening in the clip. His eyes ran over every inch of it, absorbing every detail there was to see and committing it to memory for the hundredth time.

He had come across this little... _home video_ quite by accident, along with a series of others just like it, and felt so very fortunate to have found them. All of them were wonderful, all of them were _perfect,_ and though he'd watched them all a thousand times and knew everything that was going to happen before it happened _every facial expression, every cry of pain, every moan of passion, every swipe of a weapon_ he still felt himself stiffen in his pants as he watched the events unfold once more in front of him.

But the best part of owning these clips was not the pleasure he got from  _watching_ them but the substance of what _owning_ them meant for him. The power he would have with these videos in his possession...

Even if the subject in question didn't care if these were released to the publicwhich was possible since the subject (with his lack of self-preservation skills) would gladly sacrifice his pride and privacy for those he lovedthe two people the man was _truly_ after _definitely_ would, and then the man would not only have control of the British government (and others), but also one of the largest criminal organizations to ever exist.

 _My, my,_ thought the man with a self-satisfied smirk. _How much power owning one man's soul will give me._ After a moment's consideration, his smile grew, now touched by lust. _And though not terribly important in and of himself, he_ clearly _has his uses..._

* * *

__"I hope you'll be very happy together."_ _

Sherlock shot awake with a gasp, a half-together memory still swimming in front of his eyes, the dream slowly fading from view.

John was slowly returning to his memories, aided by the time Sherlock spent in his mind palace, searching to pull them into view. The ones involving Jim came much more easily, which was to be expected, he supposed, but he wished they wouldn't; they simply added new tortures to his nightmares. Even the exciting, good ones from _before_ became twisted in his dreams.

The detective pulled himself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make some coffee. It was about three in the morning, and though he was very tired, he knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep that night.

Sherlock stared absently at the coffee pot, listening to it brew for lack of anything else to do. The conversation from his dream came to the forefront of his mind, playing over and over.

_I hope you'll be very happy together._

The words wouldn't leave, and neither would John's facial expression as he said it. The worst part was that Sherlock wasn't 100% certain whether or not the furious look he could see in his head was what John had actually looked like or if it was being changed by the nightmare that had pulled the memory forward in the first place.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Sherlock whirled around, not having heard John enter the kitchen. The doctor stood in the doorway, squinting tiredly as his eyes adjusted to the light. Sherlock glanced at the clock5:32am. He'd been just standing in the kitchen and thinking for two and a half hours. He looked over at the coffee pot and saw that it had turned itself off but there was coffee running down its sides from being boiled too long.

The detective turned back around to face John. "Yes, I'm fine."

John stared for a few moments, clearly restraining himself from pushing further, clearly wanting to ask more, to help, but knowing that every time he had done so in the past Sherlock had just brushed him off or snapped at him.

The silence continued and stretched into tense awkwardness. A memory popped into Sherlock's head, one of the few good ones he fully remembered of John. They'd just solved a caseSherlock had no idea what it was about nowand John had been laughing, smiling, riding high on adrenaline just like Sherlock had been. The doctor had made them both tea and they'd sat in the kitchen talking for hours, both too wired to even attempt to go to sleep.

Sherlock remember how incredible John had looked, his blonde hair swept up from the wind they'd caused by running through the streets of London, his cheeks flushed and eyes shining, his smile brighter than the sun. Sherlock remembered how badly he'd wanted to kiss John, wanted to revel in their excitement _together_ for the first time, but instead he'd settled for talking until the sun came up and then falling asleep with John snoring against his shoulder.

The memory of waking up curled against Jim the first time, the other man peaceful in sleep, popped into his head.

The detective sighed. It was a rarity that Sherlock could think of something nice about John without something nice about Jim making itself known.

Glancing over at John, Sherlock saw the shorter man staring down at the kitchen table with a furrowed brow, his shoulders slumped and his index finger drawing absent-minded patterns on the wooden top.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the urge to reach out. "Mariaum, my therapist, Dr. Marshallwas talking to me the other day about sharing one truth a day. It didn't necessarily have to be to someone elseshe said we could build up to that, maybeit could be said to an inanimate object or even myself in the mirror, as long as it was a real truth about my thoughts or feelings. I, of course, thought this was the most ridiculous idea, but I..."

John's head had snapped up when Sherlock began talking, looking at him in wonderment; this had been one of the few times in the long while he'd been back that Sherlock had actually initiated conversation. Not only that, but it had been with more than five words. Now John was looking at him with hope, which almost made Sherlock decide to scrap the whole idea, but Maria's voice in his head propelled him forward.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to go on, his words almost rushed and he hurried to get them all out lest he lose his nerve. "I have been struggling to talk to you because you expect certain things from me. That isn't your fault, of course, so don't think I'm angry or blaming you. You remember us and I don't completely, and you want _us_ back, which is completely understandable given the situation.

"But I struggle because..." he took another deep breath and kept going, not quite looking at John, afraid of what he'd see on the doctor's face. "Because I want to give you everything, I want it to be like it used to be, I want to be whole, with you, but I'm...but I'm not. And I hate that hopeful look you always give me when I laugh or talk to you because I know you're just going to be let down. And I really don't want to let you down."

After finishing, Sherlock forced himself to look at John. The doctor was silent, gazing back at Sherlock with a serious, thoughtful expression, clearly choosing whatever he was going to say next with great care.

Finally, John settled on, "...How about we start with watching some telly?"

Sherlock blinked. That...wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd been expecting kind, comforting words that actually wouldn't make him feel any better. He was expecting the doctor to claim that he just wanted him to get better in his own time and not to worry about him, which they both knew was false. He definitely _hadn't_ been expecting John to...to say the right thing.

"Yea," the detective agreed. "Yea, that soundsyes, good."

Then he turned and strode into the living room, throwing himself down into his chair, settling comfortable. After a moment, John followed him in, pulling the TV out of its spot and moving his own armchair so that he could see it, as well. The doctor flicked through some channels before settling on _Doctor Who;_ Sherlock saw his lips twitch in amusement out of the corner of his eye and on instinct he rolled his eyes, this scene very familiar.

_Constant complaining about how impossible the show was, sharing each and every detail that simply couldn't happen, John laughing as Sherlock ranted, John purposefully putting it on time and time again just so he could hear Sherlock go._

"You are simply a child," Sherlock said. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, putting this show on. Honestly."

Sherlock didn't look over at his flatmate, but he could feel John looking at him, lips parted in a small amount of surprise. Then the doctor looked back at the TV. "Maybe if you stopped nitpicking a scifi show in such an amusing way I wouldn't continue putting in on."

Something inside of Sherlock settled, contentment warming his chest. There was something very _right_ about that moment. He wanted it to last forever.

* * *

Mycroft stared down at the photographs in front of him, nausea churning in his stomach. Of course he'd known what his brother went through, but seeing it for himself...

When he'd arrived at work that day, the elder Holmes had discovered a plan, manila envelope waiting for him on his desk, no sign of how it had gotten there, but there nonetheless. Inside had been a series of six photos, clearly screenshots from video feeds, all staring his brother and James Moriarty in various compromising positions.

With lack of any sign of who the sender was, Mycroft's first thought had been that Moriarty had had one of his people do it, hoping to threaten his way into freedom. But no; if there was one thing Mycroft was sure of in Moriarty's mind, it was that he would never expose Sherlock like that. The man was unbelievably twisted in the head, but he still held fast to his delusions of his and Sherlock's love, and he would _never_ let his people get their hands on this kind of thing, nor use it as a piece of leverage.

This was someone else hoping to control Mycroft by using his brother's pain and humiliation. Smart, because Mycroft would do anything for Sherlock. Stupid because whoever it was would not survive for very long once Mycroft discovered the sender's identity.

There was no demand with the pictures, not anything other than the proof that someone had the videos in their possession. The first question to ask in finding out who the person was was learning where he/she had gotten them. And the best person to ask about it was James Moriarty himself.

After deliberating for a while, Mycroft sighed and buzzed his intercom, asking his secretary to cancel all his appointments for the day. He had a madman to visit.

* * *

Jim was tired of being bored. Just him, four cement walls, and a very thick iron door.

They mostly left him alone. In the beginning they'd made their attempts at forcing him to reveal information about his organization, but Jim thought that was really just Mycroft's excuse to make him sufferthe elder Holmes knew Jim wouldn't break under torture, but it was a good way to get a bit of revenge.

He dreamed a lot. He dreamed about his amazing Sherlock, that big, beautiful brain and gorgeous body. He dreamed about Johnny's head on a spike. He dreamed about escaping. He dreamed about seeing Sherlock again.

He always forced himself awake before he dreamed about stealing Sherlock away again; he'd given himself up _(stupid, idiot boy, letting your heart rule your head)_ because Sherlock had begged him to, because Sherlock had remembered what Jim had done to bring them together, because Sherlock wanted to piece his life back together. Dreaming about taking the genius back would simply lead to him hurting him again.

Now, this wasn't to say that Jim felt _guilty_ about what he'd done. No, he stood by his actions. Sherlock had been _his,_ had _always_ been his, and he'd shown the genius how much. They'd both been so happy, and Jim would _never_ feel guilty about creating that perfect life. But he would never _not_ feel guilty about the utter desolation on Sherlock's face when the detective had fully grasped everything that had transpired.

_You did so much to me, so you are going to give me this._

Jim sighed, leaning his head back against the cold stone beneath him. There was a small cot in the corner, with a blanket and pillow, but Jim preferred the floor; something about the jarring, consistent chill could settle his ever-moving mind, a true rarity in his life. It also could remind him of beautiful, tri-colored, icy eyes that he used to be able to wake up to every morning.

He wanted John Hamish Watson _dead._ In a million fucking _pieces._

There was the sound of footsteps outside, then the ten beeps of the key-code to his cell being punched in, and then the door _clanged_ and swung open. There was a small window at the top of the cell, enough to let in some sunlight throughout the day, but it was nothing compared to the sudden flood of light coming from the hallway. He'd been ready for it and closed his eyes in preparation, but it still stung.

The two guards stepped forward to drag him to his feet. He thrashed and bit and clawed the entire time, even after they'd restricted his movement with handcuffs and 'cuffs around his feet. He knew there was no point, but he couldn't help it; every time they came, he fought. He didn't expect to get away, didn't expect them to release him, but there was something about sighing and letting them do it without complaint that left an ugly taste in Jim's mouth.

They eventually dragged him into that same cement, white room they always put him in and when they shoved him down into the chair he giggled. One of the guards attached his handcuffs to the table. He swung his legs back and forth, ankles hooked as to not pull on the metal circles connecting them.

The guards left. Five minutes later, Mycroft Holmes entered.

Jim flicked his gaze over the elder Holmes brother, wondering what had brought the man here after six weeks. There was something in Mycroft's eyes, something troubled and concerned in the way that only ever had to do with Sherlock. Suddenly, Jim was concerned too.

"Ice Man!" Jim called cheerfully. "Wonderful to see you. What brings you here on this fine Friday afternoon?"

Mycroft didn't say anything, but he reached into his jacket and pulled out a manila folder. He opened it and removed its contents; a series of six glossy photographs, which he then laid out in a line on the table between them, facing Jim.

Leaning forward, Jim narrowed his eyes as he examined the pictures. He recognized what they were of, of course; could probably describe the entire encounter from each of the photos in excruciating detail. There was one depicting a moment from the time they'd had celebratory sex after Sherlock's first plan had been carried out at 100% success, and that had been one of his favorite times. He hadn't used a single trigger. They'd had so much fun.

The problem with this trip down memory lane, however, was that Mycroft should _not,_ under _any circumstances,_ have access to these videos.

"Where," the criminal said slowly, controlling himself, "Did you get these? Or, more accurately, _who gave these to you?"_ His voice was a scream by the end. Mycroft didn't even bat an eye.

If this was one of his people's doing in some fool's attempt to blackmail Jim out of prison, they would find their lives _very_ difficult once the criminal was out. They would die slowly, painfully, shitting their pants and covered in their own sick

"They were on my desk when I arrived at work this morning," Mycroft replied calmly. "There were no demands with the folder and no identifiable features. Just these photos, clearly shots from various videos that I'm assuming were solely in your possession."

Jim's nostrils flared. "If you're implying that I sent these or had someone do so, you and I are going to have a very big problem."

Mycroft rose an eyebrow, but the superior amusement fell flat. "I'm not, though the thought had crossed my mind. No, I'm here talking to you because I want to know how and where someone could have gotten their hands on these. Who did you entrust the videos to? They were not at the house when my people searched it."

The consulting criminal scoffed and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, _please,_ Big Brother, I don't actually _trust_ the people I employ. The only one that I do was Moran, and I  _still_ wouldn't have let him see these videos. They were _private,_ they were _Sherlock_ letting go and I would have _never_ "

Jim cut himself off, taking a deep breath. "When I had Sebastian bring Watson to the house, I removed the videos out of paranoia and sent them to another city, where I was planning on leaving for with Sherlock once everything was taken care of. I had assumed they made it to the P.O. box where I was going to pick them up. Looks like they were intercepted."

The consulting criminal scowled, glaring down at the table. "I don't know _how_ that could have happened. No one could have known that they _existed_ let alone when and where I was sending them. The person would have had to-"

Suddenly, it clicked.

"Oh," he breathed. Rage flooded through his entire body, every single molecule burning with pure hatred and _disgust_ and then self-loathing because he was _stupid,_ stupid and _careless_ how could he not even _consider_ the threat would continue, he was a fucking  _idiot._

"Oh?" Mycroft demanded. "What do you mean _'oh'?_ Do you know who has the tapes?"

Letting out a slow breath, Jim leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck and regaining control of himself. He looked at Mycroft evenly. "Yes, I believe so."

The elder Holmes looked ready to strangle him. _"Well?"_

Jim shook his head. "I have the solution to your problem. I want something in return."

Oh yes, the other man _definitely_ wanted to wrap his hands around Jim's throat. "What happened to you would _never_ let people see Sherlock like this?"

The consulting criminal rose his eyebrows. Now that he knew the answer, Jim felt a lot more in control of himself and of the situation. He utterly _detested_ being thrown off balance, and this whole situation had done just that. Now, plans about how to move forward were laying themselves out in his mind, contingencies for contingencies just like in everything else he did. But first...

"I still wouldn't. The person hasn't sent a demand or threatened to go pubic yet, so this isn't time sensitive as of now. I know who the person is and I'm sure once you know you can come to some solution. But first, there is something I want."

Jim could see Mycroft's desire to tell him to stick his request where the sun don't shine, his desire to call in his torturers and try to _force_ it out. Anything other than giving Jim Moriarty what he wanted. But this was _Sherlock_ they were talking about, and someone possibly having control over Mycroft andthereforethe government as well.

"Which is what?" The elder Holmes finally forced out, clearly forcing himself to breathe.

"I want to see Sherlock."

There was no hesitation in Mycroft's response. "No."

Jim chuckled. "Oh, come  _on,_ Ice Man! Are you really willing to risk being blackmailed or having these videos released to the public? All because you don't want to put me in a room with Sherlock _uncuffed_ and _unsupervised_ for ten minutes? Tsk, tsk."

"No."

With a heavy sigh and casting his eyes skyward, Jim leaned back in his chair. "Ah, well. Let me know how this situation works out, then."

The room fell into a tense silence. The consulting criminal could feel how much Mycroft wanted to hurt him, wanted to force the secret from him in the most violent ways possible. They were alike in the fact that they didn't like getting their hands dirty, but they were also both perfectly fine with ordering other people to do so. And yet, Mycroft knew it wouldn't work.

So instead, The elder Holmes brother stood up, straightened his jacket, and strode from the room.

Jim smiled.

* * *

The footsteps on the stairs were hesitant, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in amused exasperation, but he couldn't help the small amount of worry that accompanied the slow creaks; Mycroft was not generally a hesitant person. Whatever he was here to say or ask was something he did not want to. And if he didn't want to do it, then it was someone else's idea. This wasn't going to go well.

"Would you just get in here?" Sherlock snapped, not looking up from his microscope. "Your indecision in distracting me from my work."

The footsteps stilled, and then began moving at a normal pace, entering the flat with an imitation of Mycroft's usual confidence. The government employee stood behind Sherlock for a few moments and Sherlock stayed where he was, letting his brother watch and assess him. Then, "Sherlock, I am going to ask you to do something."

"And you don't want to," Sherlock finished, not a question. He straightened and turned around, flicking his eyes over Mycroft. The elder Holmes' expression was grave and made him look much, much older than he actually was. His hands were clasped on his umbrella's handle, pressing it to the floor in a white-knuckled grip. Worry grew inside of Sherlock. "What's going on, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked down, took a slow, deep breath, and then rose his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Someone has acquired videos of you in various compromising positions during...during your time away. Snapshots of some of these videos were deliveredanonymouslyto my office, assumedly alerting me to possible blackmail to come. There is someone who knows who this person is, but..."

Now Sherlock understood. The subject had to do with Jim, which meant that if Mycroft had the option, Sherlock would never _ever_ know that such a plot was taking place; Sherlock wouldn't even know if Jim Moriarty even existed anymore.

"Jim is the one who knows," Sherlock once again finished his brother's thought. Mycroft flinched at the name.

"Yes."

Even though he'd already known the answer, the confirmation made Sherlock's heart begin to thud in his chest. This was so much more than _mentioning_ Jim to Sherlock, what Mycroft had never done and had never planned to do; this was absolute proof that Mycroft had _talked_ to Jim, which meant that Jim was _alive._

Sherlock felt

Well, he _felt._

When he finally regained enough control to continue conversing, the detective said, "Why are you bringing this to me? You wouldn't unless it was absolutely necessary. You can't get it out of him by torture, he'd never break for anything. Talking and asking won't work because he couldn't care less about what you want. The obvious choice would be a deal" he cut off, his breath and heart stopping. "Oh." His voice was breathless.

_He wants to see me._

"He wants to see me." Sounds felt dull, distant.

The last time Sherlock had seen Jim, both of their hearts had been broken. Sherlock had realized he'd been raped and messed with, and he'd saved Jim's life by begging for the criminal to surrender. Sherlock had kissed Jim softly as Mycroft's team had cuffed him and dragged him away. He'd felt broken and confused and suddenly very alone the further his rapist had gotten from him.

_You did so much to me, so you are going to give me this._

And now Jim wanted to see him. In exchange, he would give Mycroft the information he needed to get ahead of whoever the person was. Sherlock couldn't for a second say he was surprised.

"Alright," Sherlock replied, his voice surprisingly even.

Mycroft straightened slightly. "Sherlock-" Mycroft began.

"No," Sherlock replied. "You need this information, don't you? It needs to be done. So shut up and let's go."

His brother looked at him, eyes infinitely sad. It was disgusting. "Do not pretend that you care about keeping these photos secret, because you have a stunning lack of self-preservation," Mycroft murmured softly. "You're agreeing for the same reason I don't want you to go: he still has a hold over your mind. I did not want to come ask you, because I knew what your immediate answer would be. It makes me sad that I was right."

Sherlock sneered and stood up, walking into the living room and pulling on his coat. There was a weight in the pocket that wasn't usually there, but wasn't unfamiliar. He chose to keep it, in case it came in handy later. "Are we going or not?"

Mycroft was silent, watching again. Then he sighed and headed out the door, Sherlock right at his heels. ~~~~

* * *

When they got to the black-site, Mycroft didn't make him go through the security, for which Sherlock was grateful, because everything was just a blur. Sherlock knew where he was, knew what was happening, but all he could focus one was that somewhere in the building was Jim Moriarty, and he was _so close._

Mycroft led them through a series of winding halls, down four floors in an elevator, and then through another series of winding halls. Honestly, it was ridiculous.

At one point, Mycroft slowed and then stopped, his brow furrowed worriedly. Sherlock let his brother get lost in concern for a moment before snapping, "Which door?"

He barely heard Mycroft's response over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears, but the accompanying hand pointing was unmistakable.

"Sherlock," Mycroft stopped him just as the detective was heading for the door. He turned to look at his brother. "I hope I don't have to warn you to be careful. This is ten minutes unsupervised with the man who brainwashed and raped you-" Sherlock flinched minutely, "-who will also be unrestrained. Are you sure?"

"Goodbye, Mycroft," Sherlock said, bypassing the question completely. "I'm sure I'll see you in precisely ten minutes. God knows you wouldn't dare be a moment later." He waited, knowing that Mycroft had to swipe his access card to open the door, but when his brother didn't move he had to snappishly prompt, "Well?"

With another sigh _(he had heard Mycroft sigh far too much in the last day than he thought he ever had before)_ , Mycroft stepped forward and swiped his card over the scanner, unlocking the door.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.

Jim was thinner and paler, which were both understandable considering he'd been a prisoner in an underground black-site for six weeks, but he looked no less vibrant, _alive._ The criminal was almost glowing. He was wearing a thin, black t-shirt and matching pants, his wrists free of the handcuffs attached to the table. His eyes were drinking in Sherlock, slowly scanning the detective inch by inch, absorbing every detail.

"Sherlock," Jim said breathlessly. "Oh, my beautiful Sherlock."

The taller man looked up to the camera in the corner, at the blinking red light, and waited. After a few moments the light disappeared and the camera angled downward, powered down. Sherlock lowered himself into the chair across from Jim and folded his hands on the table.

"...You look like shit," Sherlock said after a moment.

Jim grinned, wild and manic and familiar. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. Coming here was very bad. A very, very bad idea. This was probably the exact opposite of what he should be doing. Maria would glare. John would be panicked and angry. Mycroft had already made his position clear. And coming here...he never wanted to leave. He never wanted to stop seeing that insane, beautiful smile, hearing Jim say his name, feeling the way those dark eyes saw nothing but him.

"Thanks, my dear," the criminal replied cheerily. "Ya know, the water pressure here is _sooo_ not up to par. I've filed a complaint but alas, no one got back to me. The service here is simply  _terrible,_ Sherl, honestly."

Sherlock couldn't resist it; his lips twitched in amusement. "Yes, well, I assume they're just trying to give you the full, immersive experience of illegal prisons. Seems just the sort of thing you'd love to try."

Jim waved a hand through the air, turning up his nose. "Been there, done that. One tires of it eventually."

There was a brief silence, both of them just staring at each other. Then they both grinned, laughing a little. "Oh, I missed you," Jim sighed. His eyes were soft and gentle, his smile lowering to match them.

Sherlock hesitated. "I..." Once more, he looked up at the camera, but no one was watching. For the next seven minutes and forty-nine seconds, they were perfectly alone. He could be honest, truly honest, for the first time in six weeks outside of a therapist's office. "I missed you, too," he whispered.

Slowly, Jim reached across the table, his hand grasping Sherlock's. After a moment's hesitation _(don't do it, pull away, get the information and leave)_ , Sherlock turned his hand and held Jim's in turn, staring down at their intertwined fingers.

Without letting go or pulling away, Jim stood up and moved around the table, coming to stand by Sherlock's side. The detective's heart slammed in his chest. He should go. He should not allow this. He should remember what Maria would say, how this would only pull him backwards, how letting Jim close would only create more negative side effects then fix anything.

But it was _Jim._

Sherlock tilted his head up, looking into Jim's dark, fathomless eyes. Jim cupped the detective's face, releasing his hand to stroke his fingers across his cheeks and nose and lips and eyebrows. Sherlock sighed in pleasure, his eyes sliding shut.

"So beautiful," Jim murmured. "So, so beautiful." He turned his hand and started to stroke the back of it down Sherlock's face.

Sherlock moved faster than he ever had before, out of his chair and across the room. His breathing was coming in fast, his heartbeat the only thing he could hear. The relaxed, happy buzz that had only had a moment to enter his mind at the trigger quickly faded; he'd stopped it before it could reach a point of control.

When he felt himself settle comfortably into his skin again, Sherlock rose his eyes to Jim, who hadn't moved from where he'd been. "Do that again," the detective said slowly, his voice thankfully level, "and I will make sure Mycroft leaves you in a cell where your only human contact would be with the hand that pushed your food tray through a slot. You'd definitely never see _me_ again."

Jim had the decency to look a little guilty.

"How could you do that?" Sherlock demanded. "Why would you...I came here to see you and you tried to _control me?"_

The criminal sighed, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly." At least he sounded sincere. "It was instinct, I'm just used to..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry. Stay."

They stood in silence. Sherlock hesitated; he should leave. He should tell Mycroft he was sorry, but they would have to discover the identity of the soon-to-be blackmailer another way. He could not stay in the room with Jim. This would cause far more harm than good.

Instead, Sherlock nodded, slowly walking back over.

"Give me the name, Jim," the detective murmured. "The name Mycroft wants."

The shorter man rolled his eyes, clearly moving forcibly past what just happened, and jumped up to sit on the table, swinging his legs. "Seeing as the moment I do you'll leave, I think I'll wait until the end of the ten minutes. We hit that limit in five minutes and seven seconds."

"Try me," Sherlock argued.

Jim just grinned. "Nope," he said, popping the _'P'._ "Come here."

Sherlock frowned, once more reminding himself why he really _shouldn't_ go anywhere near Jim Moriarty, why the five feet between them was a perfect distance. But his feet ended up moving anyway, not stopping until he was right in front of Jim. _Too close, too close, far too close._ Jim rose an eyebrow at him and spread his legs, a challenge.

Frankly, Sherlock didn't know what propelled him forward. There was no thought process behind it, nothing concrete. There was only how _close_ Jim was, how _close_ after so long of being so far. And he just wanted to be closer. So much closer.

Sherlock surged towards Jim, stepping right between his legs and planting his hands on the shorter man's hips. Jim closed the final distance, crashing their mouths together, his hand cupping the back of Sherlock's neck and holding him close.

Sherlock was _buzzing._ It felt like every nerve in his body was on fire, and he was gasping, desperate for more. It was like something inside of him had been off balance for the past six weeks and now it settled, brought to peace because part of himself had just been returned, a part of his very own soul.

At the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that this was unbelievably unhealthy. He was probably allowing so many tendrils of Jim back into his head, the ones he'd been working so hard to make go away. But he couldn't think about any of that because he was _home._

He felt Jim pushing his coat from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. The criminal ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and down his chest and back, grasping at him forcefully. And Sherlock pulled at him just as tightly, desperate for him like a drowning man is for air. He could feel that Jim was hard, and he let the shorter man pull him down across the table, their bodies pressed flush together, moving in sync.

"Jim," he gasped, "Jim."

Jim grinned up at him, feral and filled with lust and _love,_ and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, pulling him down and grinding their groins together. They both moaned.

"Stay with me," Jim said, breathless.

Sherlock laughed, equally breathless. "In a prison? No, I don't think so."

They kissed some more, and then Jim said, "Then take me with you."

Sherlock stilled and lowered his head, pressing his face against Jim's chest. "Please don't," the detective whispered. "Don't ask that of me. It's not fair. You _know_ it's not fair."

Jim gently pulled his head back up, looking into his eyes. "I know," he said, matching Sherlock's quiet tone. "I know." He kissed him them, soft and gentle, and then squirmed until they were both sitting upright. Their erections flagged and they made no move to do anything about it, just sitting, kissing softly.

"One minute and thirty-nine seconds," Sherlock murmured. Jim rolled his eyes.

"I know I haven't much ground to stand on," the criminal replied, "but this is a _vile_ man you're dealing with. I have dealt with many horrible people who do unimaginable things, but none of them turn my stomach like this man. Do not be cocky when dealing with him; in fact, try your best to leave the _dealing_ to your brother. He is extremely intelligent and knows that what he possesses means control over Mycroft, which means control over the government. Also..." Jim sighed, annoyed. "It also gives him control over me, which I am not the _slightest bit_ happy about."

"Name?" Sherlock prompted.

Jim stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet as well, and picked up the detective's coat, sliding it up his arms and into place. The criminal then leaned in and kissed him. Sherlock sighed against his mouth, kissing back, but began to try to pull back up his mental defenses, shutting himself away.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen." Jim's voice was sad, a goodbye.

Outside, footsteps approached. Sherlock backed away from Jim just as the camera flicked back on and the door swung open.

Mycroft stepped inside, his gaze flicking over the two of them. His eyes narrowed, looking both angry and sad. It was obvious that he'd read on them what had happened, and really wasn't happy about it. "Times up," he said in a clipped tone. Sherlock swept from the room, his strides long and fast, trying to put as much distance between himself and that cell as he could.

"Goodbye, my love," he heard Jim murmur before the door slammed shut between them.

Mycroft fell into step beside Sherlock. "Well?" he asked tightly.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," the younger Holmes replied. The elder's steps didn't falter, but he was suddenly much tenser. Sherlock didn't have it in him to care about any of that situation; all he could focus on was slowing his heart-rate, keeping his breathing even, resisting the urge to turn right back around and release Jim, to fight for him to get out of this hole in the ground.

"I'm going home. I assume you'll call if you need me." He didn't wait for his brother's response, striding back towards the exit.

* * *

221B Baker Street was not empty when Sherlock got home.

John was on the couch, looking decidedly uncomfortable and fidgeting. Two men in black suits stood inside the living room, one by the fireplace and the other in the entrance to the kitchen, both clearly armed. And standing by the window was a tall man with receding brown-gray hair and a pair of thin-rimmed glances. His suit was the expensive sort, gray and tailored.

John looked at Sherlock when he entered, concern written all over his face, his hands clenching with the urge to do something. Sherlock sent him what he hoped was a reassuring look.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock enquired, directing his question to the man by the window, who was clearly in charge.

"We are going to go back downstairs, and you are going to get in my car," the man replied. He had a Danish accent and he spoke slowly, articulately, methodically.

"...And why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, keeping most of his incredulousness from his voice.

The man turned to face the detective now, scanning him and sending a shudder of disgust up Sherlock's spine. His eyes behind the glasses were flat and dead. "Because I possess a series of videos of you in various _compromising_ positions with James Moriarty. Videos which both your brother and Mr. Moriarty would, I think, do anything to keep from being released; they do _so_ love to protect you, those two." He chuckled a little. "Odd, when you think about it, considering what the _Consulting Criminal_ did to you."

 _Ah,_ so _this_ was the mystery blackmailer. Charles Augustus Magnussen. What could he possibly want with Sherlock? The videos gave him the control he clearly desired, so what purpose would coming to 221B serve?

The man's lips twitched in the parody of a smile. "You have a history of not much caring about what others think of you, so I am not stupid enough to think that these pictures would put you in my control. But pressure points have always been my specialty, and you have two _very_ strong ones." His eyes flicked to John and then back to Sherlock. The lifelessness of them was disturbing.

"Mycroft Holmes' pressure point is his junky little brother. James Moriarty's pressure point is the consulting detective he kidnapped. And Sherlock Holmes' pressure points are the danger-addicted army doctor John Watson and the consulting criminal James Moriarty. With the videos, I own James Moriarty. I can make him do anything I want. Which means I own _you,_ and can make _you_ do anything I want. And right now, I want you to go downstairs, get in my car, and let it take you wherever I say."

The apartment fell silent. There was no doubt in Magnussen's expression about whether or not Sherlock would do as commanded. The detective glanced at John, an apology in his eyes.

That ignited something in the doctor. "What?" he exclaimed. "No! Sherlock, you can't _go_ with him! You-"

"Do you see another option?" Sherlock replied sharply. He hated this; he and John had just started to build a bridge. The meeting with Jim, and this right here, would break it down. "Goodbye, John."

"Oh, no," Magnussen interjected smoothly. "Dr. Watson is invited as well, if he feels the need to pretend to be useful."

John glared, clenching his fists, but stood up anyway. Sherlock thought about arguing with him to make him stay back, but he knew it would be useless; John wouldn't just let Sherlock head off into danger without him by his side. So, without waiting, Sherlock turned and headed right back out of the apartment, down the stairs and onto the street.

* * *

The house Magnussen brought them to was very odd, almost built around the land it was on. It was a very modern home; glass walls, sharp angles, winding roads. Magnussen led them inside, not looking back to make sure they were following. John was a stoic presence by Sherlock's side, his jaw and fists clenched. Every once in a while the doctor would open his mouth, determined to say something, and then shut it just a moment later.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Magnussen purred. "Please, do come in, take a seat." He gestured to the white couches. After a moment, Sherlock nodded. John followed Sherlock over to the couch and sat down, his back ram-rod straight, eyes faced steadily forward.

Magnussen settled into an armchair facing Sherlock. His eyes swept up and down the detective like in the apartment, calculating and cold. An uneasy feeling settled deep in Sherlock's stomach.

"Mr. Magnussen-" Sherlock began.

The older man interrupted him. "No, no," he said smoothly. "We are still waiting on other guests. They should be arriving...soon."

A few times, Sherlock tried to ask what Magnussen meant, ask _who_ he was referring to, but every time he began to speak the man stopped him, making condescending, quieting noises. The detective's indignation sparked each time but he bit his tongue, aware of the fragile predicament they were in.

Fifteen minutes later, spent in complete silence and avoiding the disturbing gaze Magnussen never removed from Sherlock, the sound of footsteps reached the black-haired man's ears. Two pairs. Two  _very_ familiar pairs. Sherlock's eyes slid shut and he let out a slow breath. This evening promised to go very, _very_ badly.

When the two men entered the room, Sherlock felt John pop to his feet. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? Should have _known_ you had a hand in this-"

"Johnny-Boy, _do_ hush up now," Jim Moriarty drawled. "I realize paying attention was never your strong suit by maybe try to put the pieces together. This is not _my_ plot."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Jim looked much better than he had only two hours ago; he was wearing one of his best suits, immaculate and tailored and powerful. Beautiful. There was a small smile on his face, the sharp, dark one that always meant he was mentally going through all the ways to kill someone. His gaze moved to Sherlock, flicking over the detective and softening with concern.

"Hello, dear," the criminal murmured. "'Fraid we're in quite a pickle."

 _You_ do not get to _speak_ to him," John snarled. Everyone ignored him.

Next to Jim, Mycroft had his battle face on, clearly prepared for the worst. Sherlock had a feeling he was going to need it.

"How are you here, Jim?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off of Mycroft. His brother's lips thinned, pressed together. Jim turned to the man next to him, eyebrows raised, deferring. When Mycroft said nothing, Jim rolled his eyes and shrugged exaggeratedly.

"Ya see, a smidge of blackmail hit Big Brother quite suddenly and with a very specific demand," Jim said conspiratorially. Sherlock held in a sigh; Jim was tense, clearly nervously dreading what was about to come just like the rest of them, but he would always refuse to be anything less than perfectly in control of his own reactions. And he was not yet going to bow to what Magnussen expected. That, all the geniuses in the room knew, would come soon. "Release the Big Bad he had locked away and bring him to the super secret location, and the evening gossip news would not receive a few disturbing videos of his baby brother."

"And you didn't turn and run as soon as you were out because...?" John sneered. Sherlock put a hand on his arm, urging calmness. Jim watched the action with narrowed eyes.

"Is that why you keep him around?" Magnussen interjected with amusement. Everyone glanced at him. The older man explained. "Well, it must be nice to have someone around who is always so clearly absent in the mind. It provides you with a never-ending chorus of amazement at your deductions."

John's temper boiled. Sherlock rushed to interrupt it. "Do you remember what Magnussen said in the apartment?" he asked. "About pressure points?"

Clearly the doctor did, and he didn't like the implications.

"I'm _here,_ you monkey," Jim pronounced slowly, as if talking to a child, "because Ice Man and I _share_ a pressure point. What compelled him to break me out of prison is what compelled me to do as I'm told and come here instead of going off to run my business; I would do anything for Sherlock. Neither of us are very pleased about it, Doc, so why don't you sit down and shut up while the _i_ _mportant_ people find out why they're here."

Though he clearly didn't want to, John did as he was told.

Sherlock shared a look with Mycroft. _Into battle._

"What do you want, Mr. Mugnussen?" Sherlock asked calmly, looking to the man who had brought them all together.

Magnussen tilted his head. "I already have it. Control over the British government and over the largest crime syndicate in the world. I own two of the most powerful men that currently exist."

"Then why are we all here?" Mycroft interjected.

Magnussen smiled, a sickening, ugly smile. "We can call it an _experiment,_ if you like," the man said, glancing at Sherlock. "Or a _game,_ if you prefer," he continued, shifting to look at Jim. "Or a _test,_ if it makes you feel better about everything," now he looked at Mycroft.

"And what is the game?" Jim asked with a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

Dead eyes focused once more on Sherlock. A shudder traveled up the detective's spine. "I think," Magnussen said slowly, satisfaction in every syllable, "that I would very much like to know how it feels."

For a moment, it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Mycroft's spine straightened, Jim lost all pretense of relaxation, and Sherlock went numb. John looked at a loss for a couple seconds, probably in denial, but when he realized what everyone else had, his eyes widened, horrified and outraged.

"And in exchange?" Sherlock asked quietly. He felt separate from himself at the moment; one part of him was terrified, and hopeless, and experiencing a number of flashbacks that horrified him, but the other part knew how this had to go. He couldn't be terrified about something necessary.

Mycroft said his name warningly. John shouted it in concern. Jim was silent. A satisfied smile played at Magussen's lips.

"Hm?" the blackmailer asked.

"Don't play dumb, you are incapable of succeeding," Sherlock shot back. "You want a large variety of thing from me. I see the position we are in, and the control you wield. But you do not seem to see the control _I_ wield."

Now Magnussen looked amused. The other three, the three people in the room who loved him, watched him without blinking, waiting for whatever plan he'd come up with. Considering the situation, Sherlock couldn't even enjoy that he was a step ahead of Mycroft Holmes and James Moriarty at the same time. Then again, of _course_ this plan never would have occurred to them; they wouldn't be here in the first place if they were willing to put on the line what he was.

"Oh?" Magnussen said with a small chuckle. "And what control would that be?"

"Because of the photos you sent ahead as a warning, I have evidence of all that occurred with Jim. Now, they're not as long or detailed as _videos_ would be, but I have them all the same. Screenshots ofhow did you put it?me in various _compromising_ positions. As you also so _correctly_ stated, I couldn't care less about these being released past a minor inconvenience. So, I am fully comfortable doing exactly what you're threatening, and will send them to every media outlet in the country. Which, of course, would take _all_ your power away from you."

Mycroft, Jim, and John all wore identical expressions of horror. Sherlock wished he could get a picture, only so he could show it to Jim later and laugh about how he'd been _slow_ and looked exactly like John, whom he hated.

Even more satisfying, _Magnussen_ looked surprised.

"So, the way  _I_ see it, you don't really have any power at all, do you?" Sherlock settled back in the couch, feeling much more confident and in control than he had for a while.

"So what are you proposing?" Magnussen asked after a moment, a deeply unhappy expression covering his features. "Clearly you've found a way to bypass all of this."

Sherlock-" Jim began.

"Hush," the detective shot back, taking a common word from the criminal's vocabulary.

"I'm _proposing_ a trade," Sherlock said, turning his full attention back to Magnussen. "Though I have no qualms about releasing the photos, it is _quite_ clear that Mycroft and Jimand Johnwould be unbearably disturbed by it. If I could, I'd like to avoid that. So, a trade: you give us all the copies you have of _anything_ pertaining to the topic at hand, and you can have me. For a time."

"Sherlock Holmes-!" Mycroft.

_Big brother, you have lived your entire life trying to protect me. It is my turn to do the same. I can't leave you in his control, one way or another._

"Wait just a minute-!" John.

_John, the world you live in is now very different from the one I do. I'd like to join you again in the light someday, my love, but for the moment, I have a job to do._

"Sherlock. Don't-" Jim.

_Oh, Jim. What a position you've put us all in. My dear, do you even realize all the damage you leave in your wake? The messes others must clean up? Darling, it's time to step away._

"Do we have a deal?" Sherlock spoke over the other men. A deep sadness had taken him over. He never wanted this. What ever happened to the old life he lived, chasing criminals through the streets, deducing crime scenes, _enjoying_ everything the day could bring? _Oh, Jim._

Magnussen stared at him, long and hard. Then he tilted his head and said, "Johnson, bring it to me."

One of the suited men who had been standing at the wall turned and left. Sherlock and Magnussen never broke eye contact. Less than a minute later, the man returned, carrying with him a locked briefcase, which he handed to his boss.

Magnussen's gaze flicked downward so that he could put in the keycode to unlock it, and then opened it. After examining the contents for a moment, he turned it around so that Sherlock could see inside. There were many photographs, and eleven videotapes held in place. Though Magnussen was _incredibly_ untrustworthy, Sherlock knew that he wasn't lying about this being the library of evidence against Sherlock.

"And there are no copies? Nothing but what is in this briefcase?" Sherlock asked, needing confirmation. He reached into his pocket, his hand settling around the object he'd noticed before leaving to meet Jim earlier.

"This is it," Magnussen confirmed. He shut the briefcase. "Now, to your side-"

_Bang._

Sherlock slowly rose to his feet as he lowered the British Army Browning L9A1 to his side. John popped up and exclaimed in surprise. Mycroft looked just as shocked before he schooled his expression, clearly already moving onto how to clean the mess up; he took out his phone and began to type. The two bodyguards rushed towards them and John snapped into action, jumping forward and taking them down with his superior skill.

Sherlock stared down at the limp body of Charles Augustus Magnussen, failed blackmailer. Blood oozed from the hole in his head and Sherlock felt a vicious curl of satisfaction in his gut.

When footsteps approached, Sherlock looked up. Jim stood next to him, staring down at the body like Sherlock had been, the twist of his lips conveying that he shared what Sherlock was feeling. "I'm _very_ impressed, my dear. Bet it felt fucking good," Jim said. He looked up at Sherlock, grinning. There was something deeply hungry in his eyes.

Sherlock stared back, captured by his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed, "It really did."

"A cleanup crew is on its way," Mycroft said. "Very discreet."

Sherlock glanced around; the two bodyguards were unconscious on the ground, and John was twitching like he wanted more people to hurt to get out all his pent up aggression. His eyes kept flicking to Jim, his desired target obvious.

"Good, that's good," Sherlock replied. He tossed the gun to John, who caught it deftly out of the air. "Putting your gun in my coat pocket is an old habit that I'm sure my therapist would not approve of you having continued."

"Yea, well," John said lightly, clicking the safety on, "sure came in handy now, didn't it?" He grinned. Sherlock returned the look with a large smile of his own.

"...Well, I'd better be off," Jim threw in, his hands in his pockets.

John switched his attention to the criminal, his gaze turning murderous. He began marching threateningly forward, but Sherlock stepped between the two of them. John's eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock," he said tightly. "You cannot _seriously_ be thinking about letting him go! I know your memories are a little fuzzy but come _on,_ Sherlock; they're not _that_ fuzzy!"

Sherlock took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. In an odd way, John yelling at him was comforting; the past six weeks had been very gentle, but Sherlock _knew_ that their entire relationship had not been free of fights. It felt normal, and without searching, a memory of a past argument came free. The absence of hardship in seeing his own memory was staggering and made Sherlock want to weep with relief.

It wasn't everything, but just like that night watching Doctor Who, it was an amazing start.

"You're right, they're not, and yes, I am. You're not going to like this, John, and Mycroft isn't going to like this, and Jim isn't going to like this, and I'm _certainly_ going to struggle with this, but John, I need a balance." His voice was almost pleading. "I can't...I can do this one-sided thing. You always around and him never there; it's _painful_ John. It would be just as horribly painful the other way around, too.

"You don't need to remind me what he did," Sherlock added when it looked like John was about to explode. "I can _never forget_ what he did. And I do not forgive him, nor do I plan to go back with him. But I can't...I can't go on the way I am, knowing he's slowly dying in a hole in the ground. I know this is unhealthy and not right, but we're going to do it this way anyway."

John looked at a loss for words. "And what way would that be?" Jim asked from behind him.

Sherlock looked at the criminal. "You're free, Jim. But if you ever touch anyone I care about, anyone I even _know,_  I will not hesitate to be the leading force in hunting you down. I would like to see you, but you are by no means welcome anytime you want. And _definitely not_ before I've gotten rid of all those blasted triggers."

Jim hesitated, his eyes flicking all over Sherlock's face, and then nodded. He stepped forward slowly, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock's, and leaned in. Sherlock accepted the kiss, soft and gentle and a _goodbye for now._

Then, with a grin and a wink, the consulting criminal sauntered away.

John looked incredulous. He turned to Mycroft. "Are you actually allowing this?"

Mycroft didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. "Yes," he said slowly. "I believe I am."

For a moment, it looked as if the doctor was debating whether or not to chase after Jim and take him down anyway, but then he slumped and sighed. "Can we go home now?" he asked sadly.

Sherlock smiled and strode forward. He fought against himself for a moment, and then chose to let himself just be _happy_ _,_ if only for a few seconds. He leaned in and kissed John. The doctor startled and then kissed him back, hesitant and afraid, but happy.

This wasn't perfect, and wasn't ready to even begin yet, but it was a lovely start. They could work everything else out later; Jim, and the triggers, and the nightmares, and Sherlock's split heart. But Sherlock was perfectly content to be content, if only for a moment.

He looked to Mycroft. "Are you going to let him go?" _Really going to?_

Mycroft tilted his head, looking strangely relaxed. Getting rid of an evil blackmailer could do that. "Do you really want me to?" he said. Sherlock laughed, surprised.

"Is that _honestly_ the joke you chose to make?" he asked, incredulous. "Honestly, that felt fitting?"

"Quite," his brother replied, looking simultaneously pleased and like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"Baker Street awaits," John interjected. He hesitated, and then smiled tentatively. "Come on, let's go home."

 _Home._ No, now that Jim was out and about, and John was just as free as ever, home would be wherever they were. Baker Street and that country-side manor were just places.

Where Jim and John went, he would go. He could find his balance.


End file.
